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It’s hard to stay mad at Mikhail when every cell of my body seems, somehow, attuned to him, yearning to get closer.
In my chest, my heart leaps with joy every time he’s near, making me feel complete instead of the flawed, lost person I’ve always believed myself to be.
He’s mine, and I’ll fight anything and anyone who tries to keep him from me, even if it’s Mikhail himself.
“And you are going to let me.” I poke him with my finger in the center of his chest, then continue, “Because I am in love with you. Every part of you. Your grumpy personality included. Fucking deal with it.”
Will I love Mikhail less because of what he does? No. A fucked-up world creates fucked-up people. I’m probably one of them, too, because I accept my reality for what it is.
